


i am a poem, or i am a pattern

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Cunnilingus, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Alternate reality, Robb is not a Stark but a whore from a Lysene pleasure house and he's hired by Littlefinger to make sure Sansa Stark isn't frigid on her wedding night, and he falls in love with this sweet girl who's being used by all these men and he just wants to make her feel good.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>They’re all special and they’re all different.</p><p>That’s what they want to think, all of them, every single one, which makes them anything but special or different. But it’s his job, and it’s Robb’s skill that he makes them believe it. They may be common and coarse, they may be as ordinary as bread, despite their nobility, their high birth, their hoards of gold – indeed, Robb has found that the higher their birth, the more ordinary they’re likely to be – but they’d never learn it from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am a poem, or i am a pattern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/gifts).



They’re all special and they’re all different.

That’s what they want to think, all of them, every single one, which makes them anything but special or different. But it’s his job, and it’s Robb’s skill that he makes them believe it. They may be common and coarse, they may be as ordinary as bread, despite their nobility, their high birth, their hoards of gold – indeed, Robb has found that the higher their birth, the more ordinary they’re likely to be – but they’d never learn it from him.

He’s good at his job. Even as a boy he’d loved to please people, to give them things they never knew they wanted. Surely, it’s been to his benefit, he’s been given jewels, gold, fine silks and clothing. He’s dined with noblemen, seen wondrous things. But he gets the most out of giving people what they want, making them feel pleasure. It’s powerful, heady. It’s the sole power he has in the world and he enjoys wielding it, likes his ability to bring them to their knees when they intended to have him on his own.

The offer had been an irresistible one. A girl to be wed, a girl to be made Queen, a girl as pure as new snow and just as cold. Lord Baelish had brought Robb here special just to bed her. The money is plenty, but that’s not what intrigued Robb, not in the way Baelish spoke of the girl had, the story he’d offered Robb for her circumstances. 

“Make her warm for her wedding night,” Baelish had said. “Teach her not to be afraid.” The prince she’s to wed is nothing new, in Robb’s experience, a callow boy whose life’s ease has curdled into cruelty, a bully and a cad. Hard to erase her fear when fear is the most sensible option left to her.

She’s a lovely thing, all coltish limbs and fiery hair, even more red than his own. She keeps her chin tucked close to her chest, looking up at him through dark eyelashes, but she truly looks at him, something not entirely common. She asks him his name and seems to care at the answer. It takes only minutes for him to know what Baelish does not; she isn’t cold or frigid. Her fires are just banked inside.

She knows why he’s here. Robb doesn’t know if she’s pleased by it, but it makes no matter. She will be by the time he’s through, that much he does know, not by any measure of arrogance but rather certainty in his own abilities. He knows what to say to them, that’s his particular gift. He can tell what they need to hear, even more than what they think they want to hear. This one needs humiliation, that one wants to be controlled. One wishes to be praised as a beauty and spoken to of desire, while another wants no talk at all, only grunts and moans and hisses.

What Sansa wants is love. She wants care and safety and happiness. So easy to want. So difficult to find. She wants freedom. He can’t give her that, and more’s the pity, because if ever a girl needed to be free of her gilded cage, it’s this one. But he can give her pleasure. He can give her a simulation of freedom, however momentary, and he resolves himself to give her more than she ever dreamed possible.

“Do you like this fellow you’re to wed?” he asks as she sips at her second glass of wine, the nerves that keep her shoulders tight slowly ebbing away. Robb doesn’t know why he always has this effect, he doesn’t understand just what it is about his company that eases others, but he doesn’t need to understand to make use of it.

“I will be a devoted wife,” she says, rote and mechanical enough to break his heart.

“Ah, sweetheart. Not the same thing at all, is it?” She flushes at the compassion in his voice, nervously drains her glass. “It’s all right. By the end of the evening you’ll like me very much indeed and maybe you can remember a bit of that when submitting to this husband of yours.” 

It’s the first he’s spoken of their purpose here, of what he’s going to do to her. Her cheeks color fiercely, but she doesn’t look away from his gaze, and he likes that. There is so much bravery in this girl. It’s well-hidden from those who would use her, but it’s there nonetheless, a steely core that straightens her spine and lets her meet his eyes without flinching. 

When he bears her back onto her shoulders, she allows him. Her eyes drop to his lips, stay there for a long moment. Robb recognizes when he’s wanted. No, not cold or frigid in the slightest; there is only warmth in her, and heat, in her eyes, and in her mouth when he takes it. He kisses her lavishly, endlessly, the sort of kisses a girl like her demands. Her lips are bruised when he lifts his head after what seems like hours. She looks ravaged and dazed. He sets about to make her desperate. Her cunt is as warm as her mouth when he slides his fingers into her to stroke and curl and claim her, she shivers out his name and her eyes expand into blackness.

“Do you like this?” he asks, already feeling the answer in the slick heat that coats his fingers. “Do you like feeling my fingers inside you, touching your most hidden places?”

“Y-yes.”

He slides down the bed, pushes her knees apart and admires her spread open before him. “Such a pretty cunt,” he says, “so sweet and pink. It blushes so prettily for me.” Her head tosses on the pillow and he can see the clench of her fists in the linen at her sides. The touch of his tongue when he finally gives it to her will set her off like wildfire, he knows, and he can scarcely wait to see it, to feel it, but he needs to get her desperate for it first. He draws his fingers over her, around her, sweeping and massaging, touching all around the places where she may not quite know she wants him most, but he does. 

“Your cunt begs for my touch, sweetheart, doesn’t it? Just like you do. Beg for me, sweet girl. I want to hear you want it.” At first she can’t speak, her mouth open in a soundless oh. Smiling, knowing he’s got her stretched just right, he covers her with his palm and gives her firm pressure, circling the heel of his hand just enough to have her trembling. “You say nothing. Does that mean you don’t want it? I could stop if you don’t want it…”

“No, please, don’t…don’t stop, I…oh, _oh_.”

“You want it?” He draws his thumbs on either side of her, pushing deep into the crease of her thighs, up to her belly and back down. He turns his head and gently nips the pale skin of her inner thigh, smiling and laving the spot with his tongue when she jumps.

“I do, I, _oh oh oh_.”

“What is it you want?”

“I don’t… I don’t know, I…”

“You may not know, but I do, lovely girl. I can hear the whisper of your heart even from here. You were made for this, sweetheart. You were made to love and be loved and they’ve wasted you.” An anguished sound escapes her throat, half pleasure and half misery, and Robb knows that if he could see her face, he’d see the tears in her eyes that he hears in her voice. He knows it’s what she needs, knows she’ll not ever allow herself to cry and neither will they, so her tears don’t bother him. “I know what you want, sweet girl. I’ll not waste you the way they have, that much I promise.”

“You don’t… I’m not…”

“Ah, pet, you’ve no secrets from me. Best get used to that. But I have so many secrets. So many secret ways to make you feel so much secret pleasure.” He purses his lips, blows gently over her, smiling when she squirms and wriggles, her heels sliding along the linens. “Shall I show you my secrets?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

“Do you wish to know them?”

“Please, all of them, show me, please show me.”

“Such a filthy, eager girl,” he murmurs approvingly. “Such a hungry girl. I know how to satisfy your hunger, sweet girl.”

“Please, oh _please_.” Finally, he lowers his head, licks up over her with the wide flat of his tongue, exulting in her strangled moan that he feels vibrating in his tongue and his lips and his ears. Then he parts her with his fingers, swirls his tongue over her, and she jerks and shakes, her thighs falling open shamelessly, wantonly, her hips moving instinctively to urge him closer and deeper. Robb covers her with his mouth and he sucks, gently and ruthlessly, and the pleasure isn’t only hers at the sweet violence of her response, her body bucking and her wetness on his lips and chin.

“So sweet,” he says against her as he licks and sucks, punctuating his words with the curl of his tongue, with its flicks and flutters. “Such a crime to leave such sweet nectar untasted. Ah, sweetheart, I could drink of your cunt forever and never be thirsty.”

“Gods, oh _gods_.”

He says no more for a long while, dedicating his tongue only to worshiping her. It’s enchanting how she squirms and wriggles, losing all grace and propriety, letting the façade she wears fall away completely in the face of her need for him. He’s never wanted to destroy a person the way he does her.

Twice she peaks, and twice he drinks her pleasure from her, dipping his tongue in to lap at her, avoiding her sensitive spots until she’s ready for him again. When she’s hovering on the edge of a third release, he sits up, catches her beneath her knees to haul her bodily down the mattress to him. She welcomes the press of his cock greedily, clings to him with grasping limbs and a needy heart. Oh, he would like to make this one his, he thinks. Robb has a brief fantasy of stealing her away, finding a ship to spirit them to Braavos or Pentos. He can easily imagine the happiness in her eyes if he managed such a thing.

“If you were mine, I would fuck you every hour of every day,” he growls, pulling out all the way to his tip and slowly sliding back in, so slowly it makes her whine and cry and cling to him. “I would get my cock so deep inside you and give you a babe who’d not waste your love, I swear I would. A hundred babes, one after the other swelling your belly, and still I would never wish to stop fucking you and filling you and telling you that you’re mine.” She’s weeping again, and Robb touches the tears with his tongue, licks them from her cheeks and the crescents of her eyelashes. He swallows her sorrow, her pain, takes every bit of unhappiness she has away, at least for this one evening. She squeezes around him, she digs her heels into his back on either side of his spine. He’ll have twin bruises there tomorrow, he thinks, and something about that makes him glad. He catches her knees over his elbows, pushes them back towards her chest and moans at the new angle that has her even tighter around his cock.

“Robb!” she cries, scrabbling at his shoulders with sharp little nails. “Please, _please_.”

“You would be so beautiful carrying my child,” he says, knowing his words hit too close to himself now, but unable to stop the babble that rushes from him, not when it’s just what she needs and maybe what he needs as well. Robb can’t remember the last time he thought about what he needed. It’s a queer sensation, frightening and compelling at once, like standing atop a cliff with one foot hovering in air and wondering what would happen if you just stepped forward. “So beautiful, gods, I want to put a babe in you, Sansa.” It’s the first time he’s used her name, and it feels so right on his lips. He can feel her cunt tighten around him when she hears it. Her head thrashes, her release pulses hot and tight around him and he holds himself in control to ride out her release. Baelish had told him to pull out, and he’d intended to, but he wants to give this sweet girl something more than this. He wants to give her some of himself. So he lets himself rock into her, lets himself spend until he feels empty and can only drop his head to her breast and gasp.

“I should not have spilled within you,” he admits after their heartbeats have slowed and their breathing eased. She’s curled around him sweetly, trustingly, her head tucked beneath his chin. This prince she’s to wed won’t deserve her trust, but then Robb thinks she’s probably more than smart enough not to give it to him, and it’s a small comfort. She raises her head and looks in his eyes. Yes, quite smart enough.

“I didn’t mind,” she says softly, no shyness in her gaze, nothing of the skittish girl she’d seemed to be at first. He takes the time to taste her mouth again, to nip at her chin in affection.

“And if I got a babe on you?” Her eyes darken, he feels her body quiver along his. If he eased his fingers into her cunt now, he knows she would be hot and wet for him all over again, ready for his cock and his seed, both of which he wants very badly to give her once more, twice more, forever more.

“I wouldn’t mind that either,” she breathes. So when takes her again, he spills within her, and again when she wakes in the night, and again. He spills in her over and over and thinks he shouldn’t hope that his seed will find purchase and quicken. He’s never much been bound by should and shouldn’t, though.

She is shy again the next day; her cheeks flush when he kisses her hand and then her forehead, murmuring for her to be brave. Once again he wants to snatch her up and run, wants to bundle her in a disguise and take her to the Free Cities to live a happy life free of these people who would use her toward their own ends. But he could never manage such a thing, and it would be crueler to tell her he wants to, so he only watches her go.

He hears the news of the Princess’s child less than a year later. Red of hair and blue-eyed, everyone says, just like the Princess herself, like her family stretching back before her. Strange, some think, as none in the Prince’s family are anything but golden-haired, but her next babe is blonde, and her next, so talk dies down and no one thinks anything of it. No one but Robb who knows the truth of it and is glad.

_title from How to Talk to Girls at Parties by Neil Gaiman_


End file.
